University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


& 


FACT  AND  FANCY 


BY 

AUGUSTA  REINSTEIN 
ft 


PRIVATELY    PRINTED 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 

BY 
AUGUSTA  REINSTEIN 


THE  MURDOCH  PRESS 


DEDICATION 


^Come,  my  friend,  and  in  the  silence  and  the  shadow  wrapt  apart, 
I  will  loose  the  golden  clasping!  of  this  sacred  tome,  the  heart.'" 


795271 


CONTENTS 


Childhood 7 

Motherhood 15 

Friendship 19 

Love .....  25 

Men  and  Women 31 

Nature 37 

Art 47 

Religion 53 

Literature 59 

Music 67 

Philosophy 71 

Strength  Through  Struggle 77 

Fancies 83 

Facts 91 

Health 99 

Life 103 

Death 107 


"I  love  these  little  people,  and  it  is  not  a  slight 
thing  when  they,  who  are  so  fresh  from  God,  love  us." 


A   BABY. 

A  brow  so  fair, 

No  trace  of  care, 

An  angel's  kiss  was  printed  there. 

Two  shell-shaped  ears 

With  which  he  hears 

The  music  of  the  other  spheres. 

O'er  two  blue  eyes 

Lids  fall  and  rise 

To  give  a  glimpse  of  Paradise. 

Two  rose-bud  lips 

Through  which  there  slips 

The  sweets  that  from  life  here  he  sips. 

Ten  tiny  toes 

Help  him  who  goes 

Over  this  earth  of  joy  and  woes. 

A  spotless  soul 

From  which  sins  roll, 

Perfects,  completes,  makes  up  the  whole. 


That  is  a  miserable  marriage,  a  pitiable  one,  indeed, 
where  the  birth  of  a  child  is  necessary  to  reunite  a 
couple  who  have  become  estranged. 

While  love  must  be  fed  by  love,  a  love  that  requires 
such  stimulation  insults  the  passion.  Yet  there  is 
something  beautiful  in  the  fact  that  so  unconscious 
and  irresponsible  a  bit  of  being  can  become  a  peace- 
maker. 

Almost  every  day  some  trivial  incident  reveals  to 
a  lover  of  children  a  new,  grand  truth  about  child- 
nature.  It  is  as  true  of  children  as  of  adults  that  they 
are  controlled  by  many  general  rules ;  it  is  truer,  that 
the  differences  in  the  individual  characters  of  children 
must  be  studied  to  foster  the  best  and  crush  the  worst 
instincts. 

The  affection  and  aversion  of  children  are  instanta- 
neous but  just.  Let  all  who  deal  with  them  beware 
that,  if  the  former  is  not  soon  lost  when  won,  the 
latter  is  not  easily,  dispelled  if  deserved. 

What  an  inspirer  of  pure  thought  and  action  is  a 
sleeping  child— and  a  dead  one! 


Emerson  says,  "The  ornament  of  a  house  is  the 
friends  who  frequent  it."  So  are,  or  should  be,  the 
inmates,  especially  the  children. 

A  woman  who  had  just  become  a  mother  was  asked, 
"  Why,  if  there  is  a  God,  does  he  fill  a  woman's  heart 
full  to  overflowing  with  the  maternal  instinct  and  then 
starve  it  dry?" 

"You  ask  me,  dear  one,  why  God  fills  a  woman's 
heart  with  the  maternal  instinct  and  then  starves  it 
dry?  Who  knows?" 

There  are  many  things  in  our  experience  that  are 
incomprehensible  ;  we  must  stop  to  reflect  that  we  are 
but  God's  children,  and  are  incapable  of  knowing 
what  is  best  for  us. 

The  child  often  thinks  the  parent  cruel  because  he 
is  denied  the  enjoyment  of  that  which  to  him  seems 
good,  but  which  the  parent  in  his  superior  wisdom 
knows  would  be  detrimental  to  his  beloved  child. 

There  is  a  little  bird  here  in  my  room.  He  is 
confined  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  cage,  and 
sometimes,  perhaps,  wonders  to  himself  why  he  has 
not  a  little  mate  to  bear  him  company  and  some  little 
ones  to  take  care  of  and  build  a  little  nest  for. 


Suddenly  he  opens  his  little  bill  and  sends  forth  a 
most  beautiful  song,  as  if  to  say,  "I'll  be  happy  any- 
way ;  I  have  no  time  to  waste  in  sadness.  Perhaps 
some  day  the  good  Father  may  send  me  these  things 
that  my  heart  so  desires;  but  if  it  is  not  His  will,  I  can 
at  least  be  happy." 

All  of  which  is  a  fine  bit  of  philosophy;  still,  one 
may  say,  with  Bartle  Massey  in  "Adam  Bede,"  "It's 
easy  finding  reasons  why  other  folks  should  be 
patient." 

Why  will  parents  persist  in  telling  their  young  chil- 
dren how  often  and  why  they  should  be  grateful  for 
the  creature  comforts  and  luxuries  they  provide 
them? 

The  mere  telling  has  little  or  no  effect.  It  is  only 
when  we  ourselves  are  able  to  make  comparisons 
and  deductions  from  them,  that  our  experiences  are 
forceful. 

Still,  I  am  not  in  favor  of  taking  children  to  hos- 
pitals, orphan  asylums,  or  elsewhere,  to  see  distress  of 
poverty,  illness,  or  deformity,  because  the  impression, 
if  there  is  one,  is  transient  and  because  childhood 
should  be  glorious. 


I  gave  baby  Helena  "red,  red  rose,  "but  first  looked 
to  find  and  take  off  the  thorns.  There  were  none,  so 
she  was  like  the  rose,  beautiful  to  outward  view,  and 
with  those  traits  which  give  only  pleasure,  not  pain. 

I  wonder,  baby  Helen,  will  there  always  be  some 
one  to  take  the  thorns  from  your  pathway? 

On  the  street,  there  came  running  to  me,  greatly 
to  my  delight  (when  children  shun  me  it  hurts  me  so), 
a  chubby-cheeked,  dimpled  child,  her  face  framed  by 
ringlets  and  those  by  a  soft  swan's-down-bordered 
hood. 

The  small  laughing  eyes,  healthily-pretty  appear- 
ance, and  happy  activity,  betokened  her  the  offspring 
of  a  perfect  marriage. 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  envy  of  another 
woman's  wealth  and  her  pleasure  in  possessing  this 
child. 

A  few  blocks  farther,  my  homeward  way  was  de- 
layed and  my  eyes  filled  with  bitterer  tears  at  the 
sight  of  a  baby's  funeral. 

I  grieved  at  another  woman's  loss  and  the  pain 
that  must  always  remain,  because  she  had  once  had 
her  little  one. 


"It  is  only  through  motherhood  that  woman  attains 
the  divine  perfection  of  womanliness.  Then  '  the 
light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land '  shines  from  the 
windows  of  her  soul  and  brightens  her  face  with 
celestial  beauty,  like  that  of  the  Sistine  Madonna." 


Far,  far  away,  up  in  the  sky, 

God  sees  us  every  day; 
But  very  near  and  just  as  dear, 

Our  mothers  watch  and  pray. 

I  have  found  a  Madonna  that  I  love  infinitely  more 
than  the  Sistine. 

Dagnan  Bouveret's  Madonna  is  a  tall  woman, 
nunlike  in  face  and  garb.  She  holds  her  little  one 
close  to  her  breast,  the  little  face  and  head  against 
her  own. 

The  look  of  utter  devotion  on  the  mother's  face, 
her  arms,  strong  yet  tender,  twining  about  the  tiny 
form,  completely  express  and  wholly  satisfy  my  ideal 
of  motherhood.  Despite  the  halo,  she  is  a  Madonna 
only  in  the  sense  that  every  mother  is  such. 

The  mother's  dress  is  simple  and  flowing,  one  that 
cannot  fail  to  be  artistic.  The  child  is  swathed 
bambino-fashion.  This,  no  doubt,  is  historically  cor- 
rect; but  a  long  robe  would  have  been  more  artistic. 
However,  in  this  picture  as  in  Kray's  " Lorelei," 
the  upper  half  of  the  picture  expresses  the  sentiment 
of  the  whole. 

Both  mother  and  child   are   dressed  in  spotless 


white,  which  relieves  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  dense 
grove. 

The  Sistine  Madonna,  especially  the  child,  looks 
posed  to  me,  while  Bouveret's  mother  might  have 
stopped  as  she  walked  along  to  caress  her  baby 
again. 

The  child's  face  is  hidden  here ;  the  Christ-child  in 
the  Sistine  bears  resemblance  to  the  adult  Christ  in 
the  expression  of  the  eyes. 

Bouveret's  Madonna  is  beautiful  —  greatly  beauti- 
ful to  me. 

A  mother  should  wish  her  children  sensitive  to 
that  degree  that  the  only  punishment  necessary  for 
them  for  a  misdeed  would  be  the  sight  of  the  pain 
and  sorrow  caused  thereby,  expressed  upon  her  face. 

As  deep  as  is  my  love  for  children  is  my  joy  that  I 
have  brought  none  into  the  world.  While  it  lies  in 
the  power  of  the  parents  to  give  them  much  happi- 
ness, greater  power  is  Fate's  to  bring  them  misery, 
agony,  sorrow,  and  travail. 

How  much,  if  not  all,  of  the  pride  of  parenthood  is 
selfish  ! 


"This   was  friendship,  —  to  laugh   the  lighter,  to 
work  the  harder,  to  be  gladder,  to  be  graver." 


w- 


"  There  is  no  putting  into  words  any  feeling  that  has  been  of 
long  growth  with  us.  It  is  easy  to  say  how  we  love  new  friends, 
and  what  we  think  of  them,  but  words  can  never  trace  out  all  the 
fibres  that  knit  us  to  the  old." 

"  When  I  called  her  a  little  Pilgrim,  I  do  not  mean 
that  she  was  a  child ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  not 
even  young.  She  was  little  by  nature,  with  as  little 
flesh  and  blood  as  was  consistent  with  mortal  life, 
and  she  was  one  of  those  who  are  always  little  for 
love.  The  tongue  found  diminutives  for  her,  the 
heart  kept  her  in  a  perpetual  youth.  She  was  so 
modest  and  so  gentle  that  she  always  came  last,  so 
long  as  there  was  any  one  whom  she  could  put 
before  her." 

But  this  little  body  had  a  soul  which  was  not  little, 
and  a  heart  which  was  big  and  great. 

We  were  schoolmates.  She  attracted  me  first, 
because,  one  day  when  I  was  ill,  she  came  to  me  and 
consoled  me  by  taking  my  thoughts  from  myself. 
"Friendship  is  never  complete  until  it  has  been  tried 
in  the  fire  of  sorrow.  Mere  companionship  in  pleasure 
is  not  friendship." 


We  read  "  Lucile,"  and  with  that  reading  began  a 
friendship  which  has  changed  only  to  grow  stronger. 

She  is  small;  I  am  large.  She  is  frail;  I  am  strong. 
She  takes  strength  from  me;  I  delicacy  from  her.  I 
give  her  philosophy,  the  real;  she  sheds  the  glow  of  the 
poetical,  the  ideal,  over  my  sterner  nature. 

How  rich  one  is  to  have  one  such  friend. 

A—  -  B . 

"  Friend  to  truth  !  of  soul  sincere, 
In  action  faithful,  and  in  honor  clear." 

A  tall,  straight,  athletic  figure,  emanating  great 
physical  strength,  and,  consistently  with  it,  splendid 
mental  and  moral  vigor ;  the  soul  straight,  strong,  and 
sweet,  like  the  body. 

Not  strongly  imbued  with  active  sentiment  and 
poetry,  yet  appreciating  their  finest  ramifications  in 
others.  Actively  helpful,  as  well  as  passively  sympa- 
thetic; a  quick  heart  for  charity  and  a  vivid  personality 
for  art. 

A  believer  in  and  doer  of  deeds,  rather  than 
thoughts,  yet  whose  beautiful  deeds  are  inspired  by 
beautiful  thoughts. 


MY  THREE  GRACES. 

All  three  are  slender,  spirituelle-looking  women, 
pretending  to  neither  beauty  nor  brains,  but  beautiful 
in  heart  and  mind  to  all  who  know  them  well,  and 
wise  in  the  ways  of  their  little  world,  which  is,  love 
in  action. 

Our  friends  are  always  beautiful  to  us  who  see  the 
soul  in  the  face  and  not  the  features  forming  it. 

A  hard  life  has  not  robbed  them  of  their  youth  or 
courage  or  faith  ;  it  has  only  strengthened  and  sweet- 
ened them,  and  made  them  more  appreciative  of  and 
grateful  for  the  good  and  beauty  that  fall  to  them. 

They  are  good  daughters,  good  sisters,  and  staunch 
friends,  with  such  thoughtful  and  generous  hearts  and 
hands,  doing  ever  sweet  if  small  services  to  those 
about  them  and  those  they  love. 

I  say  small  services,  not  because  they  would  not 
freely  offer  larger  ones,  but  because  they  are  beauti- 
fully consistent  with  their  worldly  wealth. 

Finally,  they  are  intense  lovers  of  nature  and  art 
and  the  beautiful  in  every  form,  whether  it  be  of 
thought  or  deed,  material  or  of  the  spirit. 


TRANSCRIPTION   OF    THE    CLOSING    PARA- 
GRAPHS   OF     '(AN     ATTIC 
PHILOSOPHER." 

Adieu,  dear  friend,  whom  I  am  now  to  lose  for  a 
time.  All  that  I  have  lately  enjoyed  must  be  laid  to 
thee  alone;  for  my  friendship  has  been  but  a  barren 
path  along  which  I  sent  my  sorrows,  butyours  changed 
it  to  a  flowery  one  in  returning  your  sympathy  and 
practical  aid. 

I  will  think  of  thee  often,  and  as  often  do  thee 
reverence  for  those  many  hours  of  happiness  thou 
hast  permitted  me  to  enjoy.  I  will  repeat  my  thank- 
fulness for  those  severities  thou  hast  showered  upon 
me,  as  they  were  intended  for  and  have  reverted  to 
my  benefit  only. 

Return  again,  then,  in  peace,  and  be  blest,  thou 
who  hast  made  me  vastly  richer  in  experience  and 
hast  given  me  sweet  memories  instead  of  past  sorrow, 
and  accept,  from  the  heart,  my  deep  gratitude  as  but 
poor  payment  for  your  many  good  offices  to  Aurene. 

Auf  wieder  sehen. 


THE     GREATEST    THING     IN    THE 
WORLD." 


The  betrothal  of  a  young  girl  has  much  the  same 
effect  that  her  death  would  have.  It  lifts  her  into 
temporary  prominence,  and  is  the  occasion  for  the 
discovery  of  many  or  all  of  her  excellent  qualities, 
latent  or  unnoticed  before. 

There  is  no  greater  sorrow  than  to  lose  our  beloved 
dead,  unless  it  is  to  lose  the  loved  living. 

There  is  no  one  both  so  obtuse  and  so  acute,  at 
the  same  time,  as  a  man  in  love  with  a  woman  who 
does  not  return  his  affection. 

His  love  makes  him  jealous,  and  therefore  quick  to 
see  her  real  or  fancied  preference  for  another ;  his 
conceit  blinds  him  to  the  truth  that  she  cannot  love 
him. 

What  a  different  impression  is  produced  when  a 
man  speaks  of  his  affaires  de  coeur,  and  when  a  woman 
mentions  her  conquests,  as  a  womanly  woman  will, 
only  "  to  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale"  ! 

When  a  man  tells  a  woman  that  he  has  been  dis- 
appointed in  love,  she  thus  learns  that  she  does  not 
hold  the  first  place  in  his  heart, — that  she  is  second 
choice,  if  any.  Even  if  their  association  does  not  tend 


to  approach  such  intimacy,  a  sensitive  woman  feels 
hurt  at  such  an  unnecessary  and  indelicate  dis- 
closure. 

When  a  woman  who  is  still  single  refers  to  her 
love  experiences,  she  allows  a  man  to  think  that  he 
stands  as  good  a  chance  as  the  next  to  win  her,  even 
if  he  has  no  such  desire. 

There  is  a  compliment  implied  in  her  confidence, 
the  reverse  in  his. 

The  test  of  true  love  is,  not  that  it  thinks  its  object 
perfect,  but  that  it  aims  to  make  it  and  itself  so.  True 
love  is  not  blind. 

"  In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  love." 

The  word  "  lightly  "  should  not,  rightly,  be  applied 
to  love,  unless  the  limitation  "young  man"  permits 
its  use. 

Summer  seems  to  be  the  time  for  love-making,  as 
shown  by  all  the  summer  engagements  announced  at 
the  beginning  of  winter. 

It  is  flattering  to  neither  a  sensitive  man  nor  woman 
to  be  made  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  or  she  is  to  a 


high  degree  companionable,  but  not  to  the  extent  of 
being  beloved. 

"To  meet  one's  ideal  and  win,  what  joy  ! 
To  meet  one's  ideal  and  lose,  ." 

"  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

If  a  nature  is  hardened  and  embittered  by  trouble, 
it  is  better  for  it  to  escape  it. 

If  a  nature  that  needs  it  is  sweetened  and  spiri- 
tualized by  sorrotv,  it  is  best  for  it  to  pass  through 
"cleansing  fires." 


MEN  AND   WOMEN. 


How  much  more  and  more  quickly  women  learn 
from  their  emotional  experiences  than  men. 

Men  are  every  bit  as  curious  as  women ;  they  are 
only  more  circumspect  in  concealing  it.  There  is  one 
trait  they  do  not  conceal  so  well  or  at  all ;  that  is 
their  conceit. 

Is  this  because  they  have  so  much  it  is  bound  to 
show  itself,  in  manner  if  not  in  speech,  or  because 
women  tempt  its  display? 

Neither  sex  knows  the  opposite  so  truly  as  its  own. 

A  narrow-minded  woman  thinks  a  man  uncom- 
plimentary when  he  praises  another  woman  in  her 
presence. 

On  the  contrary,  he  is  paying  her  one  of  the  finest 
compliments,  in  implying  that  he  thinks  her  so  broad- 
minded  that  she  can  sincerely  share  his  admiration. 

It  is  because  men,  as  a  rule,  do  not  understand 
woman's  complex  nature  that  they  misjudge  them  ; 
it  is  because  women  do  not  know  men  thoroughly 
that  they  think  so  well  of  them. 


33 


The  woman  who  is  accustomed  to  much  attention 
from  men  should  be  the  most  grateful  for  every  trifling 
courtesy ;  it  is  the  woman  who  is  not  who  is  exacting, 
who  does  not  understand  that  every  one  —  and  a  man 
especially  —  gives  only  what  his  feelings  prompt,  not 
what  would  be  forced. 

There  was  a  woman  (forgive  the  libel  on  the  sex) 
who  loved  a  married  man.  This  man  (forgive  the 
libel  on  the  sex)  excited  her  sympathy  by  confiding 
his  marital  unhappiness.  She  loved  him  for  the  dan- 
gers he  had  passed,  and,  although  he  encouraged 
her,  after  a  time  "He  had  loved  her  the  more  had 
she  less  loved  him."  Ever  after  she  delighted  in 
making  men  (whom  she  easily  attracted)  suffer  as  he 
had  made  her  suffer.  Exult,  O  great  heartl  that  no 
such  feeling,  or  lack  of  feeling,  ever  has  entered,  or 
can  enter.  If  another  has  hurt  you, —  aye,  even  to 
death, —  it  makes  you  only  more  careful  not  to  wound 
others,  for  you  measure  the  depth  of  their  pain  by 
your  own. 

Life  is  too  short,  and  should  be  too  sweet,  to  hate 
or  be  hated. 


34 


It  is  precisely  those  men  who  have  exhausted  every 
vice  and  pleasure  who  seek  and  generally  get  the 
purest  women  for  wives.  Is  this  by  reason  of  con- 
trast, or  because  their  worldliness  gives  them  charms 
to  which  "the  weaker  vessels"  readily  succumb? 

How  can  Owen  Meredith,  who  understands  woman 
so  well,  as  his  characterization  of  "  Lucile  "  proves, 
say  that — 

"  Sorrow  beautifies  only  the  heart  not  the  face 

Of  a  woman"? 

Although  sorrow  robs  the  face  and  the  figure  of 
some  of  their  freshness  and  firmness,  it  leaves  a 
spiritual  beauty  that  far  surpasses  the  mere  fleshly. 

How  beautiful  a  beautiful  woman  is, 
How  godlike  a  great  man  ! 

TWO   BROTHERS. 

One  is  tall  and  slender;  the  other  shorter  and 
stouter.  One  is  deft-fingered  and  footed;  the  other 
clumsy  and  awkward.  One  is  exquisitely  neat  in 
person  and  place;  the  other  untidy  and  unsystematic. 

One  is  fond  of  study,  with  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts; 

35 


the  other  is  indifferent  to  and  slow  in  study,  and  quite 
oblivious  of  the  higher  things  of  life. 

One  is  persistent  in  purpose;  the  other  is  easily 
discouraged.  If  the  former's  love  were  unrequited, 
he  would  annoy  its  object  till  she  married  him  for 
relief;  the  other,  if  refused,  would  bullet  his  brain. 

One  has  a  quick  mind,  a  shrewd  head  for  business, 
and  a  faculty  for  saving  money ;  the  other's  brain  is 
sluggish,  he  has  no  head  for  business,  and  cannot 
keep  a  cent. 


;  Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings." 


37 


THE  YOSEMITE  VALLEY. 

Tremendous  walls  of  granite, —  odd  shapes,  some- 
times rising  perpendicularly,  sometimes  domed,  some- 
times turreted,  and  sometimes  sloping  to  a  point,  and 
always  indescribably  colored  at  dawn  and  at  dusk. 

The  power  and  the  grace  of  the  waterfalls,  the 
thunder  of  their  descending,  and  their  different  ways 
of  falling,  their  edges  blown  into  tissue-veils,  sending 
the  spray  great  distances,  the  sunshine  sparkles  on 
them,  turning  the  drops  to  diamonds,  the  rainbows 
arching  them,  the  colors  sometimes  close,  compact, 
and  intense,  sometimes  spreading  broad  and  fine. 

The  Merced  River, —  sometimes  sailing  serenely 
along,  sometimes  lashed  into  foaming  rapids  and 
cascades,  rushing  madly  along  before  and  after  it 
forrns  the  Vernal  and  Nevada  Falls. 

Great  groves  of  gigantic  trees,  beautiful  cloud- 
effects,  snow-clad  peaks,  rich  undergrowth,  carpets 
of  wild  flowers,  strong  sunshine,  bracing  mountain 
air,  and  mountain  water,  cold  and  crystal  clear. 


39 


THE  GRATEFUL   PANSY. 

I  nestled  a  brilliant  pansy  in  the  soft,  dark  depths 

of  my  fur  cape,  from  which  it  showed  its  saucy  face- 
It  faded  during  the  day,  and  I  found  it,  withered 

and  crumpled,  on  the  floor  at  night.     I  threw  it  out  of 

the  window,  never  expecting  to  see  it  again. 

Imagine  my  surprise,  the  next  morning,  to  find  it, 

bright  and  beautiful  once  again,  looking  at  me  from 

the  window-sill,  where  the  rain  had  revived  it  to  its 

pristine  perfect  beauty. 

Its  recovery  was  a  reproach  to  me,  because  I  knew 

that  pansies,  no  matter  how  dead,   seemingly,  are 

readily  revived. 

It  not  only  returned  good  for  evil,  but  it  gave  me 

an  additional  day's  delight. 

What  seemed  to  me  to  be  certain   death  for  it 

proved  to  be  only  renewed  life. 


A   WINDOW   GARDEN. 

There  are  glorious  morning-glories  that  surprise 
one  anew  every  day  with  their  delicate  coloring,  and 
deliciously  sweet  mignonette,  dressed  in  subdued 


green,   like  some  persons  with   plain  faces  but  fine 
hearts. 

And  the  tendrils  of  the  very  sweet  sweet-peas, 
clasping  their  climbing-sticks  as  firmly  as  a  baby's 
fingers  hold  its  mother's,  when  standing  or  learning 
to  walk. 

When  gathering  flowers,  those  at  a  distance  seem 
fairer  than  those  close  by ;  so  it  is  with  many  persons, 
always  discontented  with  their  present  possessions, 
always  envious  of  what  is  not  in  their  grasp. 

In  two  gardens  that  adjoin  is  a  scene  that,  every 
spring,  is  Chinese  in  its  gorgeousness  of  coloring. 
The  paths  and  circular  edge  of  the  fountain  are 
thickly  planted  with  hyacinths  in  full  bloom;  the  long 
stalks  are  thickly  studded  with  the  starry  blossoms  of 
vivid  purple  and  pink,  light  and  dark-blue  and  pure 
white,  outlined  against  the  green  of  their  slender 
leaves  and  the  larger  mass  of  green  in  the  lawn, 
making  one  think  — 

"That  every  hyacinth  the  garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  lap  from  some  once  lovely  head." 

If  one  can  have  a  favorite  flower  among  so  many 


that  are  so  beautiful,  mine  is  the  red,  red  rose,  the 
old-fashioned  Jacqueminot.  It  has  a  glowing,  warm 
color,  velvety  texture,  sweet  perfume,  and  perfect 
form.  All  these  perfections  are  not  combined  in  any 
other  rose. 

Many  new  varieties  are  being  cultivated,  beautiful 
in  form  and  color,  but  often  so  richly  developed  that 
their  heads  hang  down  with  the  overweight;  but  my 
rose  grows  erect  on  its  stem,  meeting  the  sun  and 
the  dew  boldly,  but  not  too  boldly,  because  blushingly 
and  generously  exposes  all  the  beauty  that  is  not 
hidden  in  its  golden  heart. 

"Sometimes  I  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled." 

We  all  admit  and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  form  and 
coloring  and  the  grace  of  trees  in  summer;  but  to  me 
there  is  a  more  delicate  beauty  in  the  bare  branches 
of  winter,  outlined  against  the  gray  sky.  They  make 
a  net  of  lace  as  fine  as  tracery,  sharp  yet  soft,  bleak 
yet  beautiful. 

The  willow-tree  especially,  with  its  long,  drooping, 
tapering  twigs,  descending  like  a  shower  of  rain;  then 
the  young  tender  green  veiling  the  skeleton  just 


enough  to  soften  the  outlines,  the  pale  gray-green 
vivid  yet  soft,  strength  under  the  delicacy,  spring's 
balm  and  beauty  soothing  the  wonderful  wounds  of 
winter. 

The  custom  of  placing  marble  tablets,  engraved 
with  the  names  of  celebrated  personages  of  all  times 
and  countries  on  the  mammoth  trees,  at  first  seemed 
ridiculous  and  a  desecration. 

Ridiculous,  indirectly  to  compare  the  greatness 
and  eternality  of  the  one  with  the  pettiness  and  per- 
ishability of  the  other  (yet  the  influence  of  a  great  and 
good  man  is  neither  petty  nor  perishable). 

It  is  a  desecration  thus  to  mar  the  beauty  and  the 
grandeur  of  nature ;  yet,  in  comparing  the  trees,  their 
size,  height,  peculiar  growth,  and  beauty,  the  tablets 
are  found  to  be,  not  only  a  convenience  but  an  abso- 
lute necessity  for  distinguishing  them. 

How  different  robins  and  other  small  birds  are 
from  chickens,  in  one  of  their  characteristics  ! 

When  a  hen,  or  even  a  chick,  finds  a  bit  of  bread,  a 
worm,  or  other  tempting  morsel,  she  seizes  it  greedily 
and  hurries  to  a  safe  place  to  devour  it  alone,  but 
little  birds,  in  and  out  of  the  nest,  always  agree, 


43 


many  of  them  joining  one  who  has  found  a  windfall, 
if  not  by  expressed,  by  implied  permission,  his  enjoy- 
ment being  increased  by  theirs. 

Do  not  these  contrasting  instincts  find  a  parallel  in 
human  nature? 

How  prettily  as  they  fly, 

Are  birds  outlined  'gainst  the  sky  ! 

Have  you  ever  noticed  how  hard  the  little  birds 
must  strive  against  the  strong  western  winds?  On 
the  avenue  were  some  birds,  busily  hopping  about  a 
dull-colored  mass,  which  inspection  proved  to  be  a 
bird's-nest,  torn  and  trailing. 

Even  the  breeze  as  directed  by  the  Higher  Hand 
could  not  have  uprooted  all  this  past  l?bor.  Did  the 
despoiler  consider  that  each  soft  white  feather,  each 
twig,  meant  a  journey  even  if  of  love,  of  fatigue,  too, 
for  the  brown  builders? 

Yet  the  homeless  chirpers,  undaunted  at  the  deso- 
lation,—  aye,  desecration,— were  cheerily  trying  and 
trusting  again. 

May  we  not  learn  a  lesson  of  patience  from  such  a 
scene  ? 


Why  are  birds,  who  have  known  only  the  confine- 
ment of  the  cruel  cage,  excited  to  loud  and  continuous 
warbling  by  the  sound  of  running  water? 

Is  it  because  they  imagine  themselves  in  the  tree- 
tops  above  a  brook?  Though  they  have  lived  in  the 
city  only,  does  the  inherited  instinct  of  the  woodlands 
still  live? 

When  passing  a  house  that  was  being  painted,  I 
saw,  in  the  garden,  masses  of  straw,  feathers,  and 
twigs  that  rude,  thoughtless  (?),  cruel,  but  neces- 
sary (?),  hands  had  torn  from  the  wood-work 
crevices,  the  cosy  hidden  nooks  chosen  by  bird- 
instinct  for  safety. 

My  indignation  and  sorrow  at  the  devastation 
were  in  proportion  to  my  inability  to  remedy  or 
prevent  it. 


ART. 


47 


In  art,  men  like  the  feminine  figure  slender;  in 
life,  they  prefer  the  larger  type.  In  art,  the  model  is 
always  tall ;  in  life,  the  little  woman  is  preferred. 

Many  have  often  wondered  what  action  gave  the 
peculiar  pose  to  the  Venus  of  Milo. 

In  a  sonnet  on  the  Venus  of  the  Louvre,  by  Emma 
Lazarus,  are  the  lines  : 

"Serenely  poised  on  her  world-worshiped  throne 
As  when  she  guided  once  her  dove-drawn  car." 

The  dove  is  one  of  the  emblems  of  love,  and  so  is 
fittingly  associated,  and  the  poise  of  the  body,  with 
one  foot  advanced,  might  well  show  her  driving  a 
chariot,  the  floor  of  which  was  inclined,  but  she 
suggests  strength  so  strongly  that  one  associates  a 
larger  and  more  powerful  animal,  if  any,  with  "Her 
Majesty." 

There  is  such  complete  repose  about  the  face  that 
one  prefers  to  have  her  wholly  inactive. 

ST.  MARY'S  CATHEDRAL. 

One  need  be  neither  an  artist  nor  an  architect  to 
notice  some  glaring  defects  in  St.  Mary's  Cathedral, 
for  they  are  "greatnesses  thrust  upon  one." 

49 


No  structure  that  is  so  broken  in  outline  can  be 
stately  or  grand,  and  we  demand  that  impression  in  a 
church,  if  anywhere. 

The  red  brick,  with  its  sparse  stone  trimmings,  is 
most  unrestful  to  the  eye.  Think  of  it,  brick  for  a 
church!  Imitations  of  all  kind  are  in  bad  taste,  but 
brick  covered  with  cement,  to  represent  stone,  would 
have  been  an  improvement. 

The  building  and  the  slated  roof  already  have  a 
weather-worn  appearance,  equaled  only  by  our  City 
Hall.  It  is  not  "the  charm,  the  grace  that  time 
makes  strong." 

The  appearance  of  age  and  decay  is  carried  out  in 
the  back  portion  of  the  building,  which  looks  as  though 
it  had  sunk  into  the  sand. 

The  lack  of  art  is  again  evident  in  the  posterior 
part  of  the  structure  which  is  so  split  up  as  to  be  a 
series  of  sheds. 

The  doors  are  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  fa$ade 
of  the  church  and  to  the  expanse  of  steps  leading  to 
them.  They  should,  at  least,  have  been  as  large  as 
the  stone  arch  over  them. 

The  spire  is  neither  tall  nor  graceful,  and  the  jang- 
ling chimes  it  promises  to  hold  are  not  anticipated 
with  rapture  by  the  dwellers  near  by. 


I  learn  that  the  building  is  in  the  Romanesque  style, 
but  it  is  no  relief  to  know  it. 

The  clasped  hands  in  Amberg's  "  Hand  in  Hand" 
show  the  woman's  faith  in  the  man  into  whose  keep- 
ing she  has  given  her  life,  while  her  half-averted  face, 
with  its  awed  yet  joyful  expression,  shows  perfectly 
the  modesty  of  maidenhood. 

Its  exquisite  simplicity  is  simply  exquisite,  and 
recalls  the  lines: 

"  I  cannot  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is." 

What  fine,  tall,  strong,  heroic  types  in  Leighton's 
*' Wedded"!  What  grace  in  the  pose,  and  tenderness 
in  the  sentiment ! 

THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

The  interest  in  the  Daly  performances  is  always 
centered  in  Ada  Rehan  and  John  Drew.  The  piece 
is  absolutely  dreary  when  they  are  out  of  sight. 


As  presented  by  the  Daly  company,  the  play  is 
most  boisterous.  Drew,  in  a  pompous  manner, 
boasts  of  his  intended  subjugation  of  Katherine,  and 
from  the  time  he  carries  her  from  her  home,  directly 
after  their  marriage,  until  their  return,  he  slashes 
about  the  stage  with  a  horsewhip,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  slave  or  cattle-driver.  Before  seeing  the  play, 
I  had  thought  he  gained  his  purpose  by  exerting  quiet 
strength,  not  by  brute  force. 

BERNHARDT  AS    "CAMILLE." 

"La  Dame  aux  Camelias"  is  an  emotional  drama, 
and,  dealing  with  love,  and  especially  an  unhappy 
love,  is  closer  to  all  women  than  the  high  tragedies 
she  enacts ;  and,  appealing  strongly,  is  thoroughly 
understood. 

How  many  more  of  the  finer  touches  of  her  acting 
one  notices  than  in  her  other  performances, —  the 
hysteria,  the  languor  of  her  love  when  its  course  was 
clouded,  her  childish  happiness  when  it  showed  se- 
rene, the  weakness  of  her  ill-health,  and  her  self-pity 
thereat,  the  nobility  of  her  sacrifice,  her  character 
purified  and  ennobled  by  love,  and  the  spiritualizing 
before  death. 


RELIGION  IS  NOT  A  REQUISITE  TO  MORAL 
EXCELLENCE." 


53 


Why  do  I,  who  am  not  religious,  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word,  sometimes  go  to  church? 

To  enjoy  the  sermon  as  a  literary  treat,  to  feast  my 
eyes  upon  the  brilliant  coloring  in  the  stained-glass 
windows,  to  lose  the  sense  of  self  in  a  large  place 
and  in  a  multitude  of  people,  to  experience  anew  the 
feeling  of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men,"  and 
to  have  my  soul  uplifted,  exalted,  and  purified  by  the 
mighty  tones  of  the  organ. 

A  woman  adopted  a  little  girl  who  had  never  had 
any  "religious  instruction."  She  asked  the  child  to 
perform  some  service,  and  when  the  latter  refused, 
threatened  to  tell  God  of  her  naughtiness.  There- 
upon the  child  screamed,  and,  frightened,  hid  herself 
in  the  folds  of  her  foster-mother's  gown. 

"Think  of  it,"  said  the  woman,  "not  to  know 
what  God  is!" 

"Who  does  know?"  one  is  tempted  to  inquire, 
until  he  reflects  that  religious  discussions,  like  those 
of  politics,  oftener  result  in  estranged  feeling  than 
added  wisdom. 


55 


"  It  is  a  beautiful  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration." 

Across  the  way  is  the  new  Cathedral.  This  is  a 
holy  week,  and  there  have  been  lights  and  music  in 
the  church  every  night. 

Above  the  row  of  stained-glass  windows  is  an 
immense  rose-window;  its  kaleidoscopic  colors  are 
vividly  outlined  by  its  dark  frame,  and  the  whole 
structure,  surmounted  by  the  golden  cross  that  gleams 
in  the  moonlight,  stands  in  relief  in  the  soft,  pale  light. 

The  distant  sweet  strains  of  a  stroller's  harmonica 
are  drowned  by  the  stronger,  sweet  tones  of  the  organ, 
which  swell  to  a  grand  climax  as  the  anthem  concludes 
and  the  audience  passes  out  into  the  perfect  night, 
their  hearts  filled  so  overflowingly  with  peace  that 
silence  is  their  strongest  speech. 


MY  CREED. 

I  believe  in  the  teachings  of  Christ,  and  reverence 
his  name  for  his  works. 

I  believe  in  the  Christian  principles,  and  try  to 
emulate  them. 

I  believe  that  love  and  right-doing  are  all  that  bring 
us  happiness  —  love  for  our  own  and  for  our  fellow- 
man  as  for  our  own. 

I  believe  that  love  brings,  or  should  bring,  right- 
doing,  or  it  is  not  worthy  the  name. 

I  believe  that  prayer  is  an  appeal  to  the  better 
nature  within  ourselves,  and  is  not  addressed  to  any 
power  without  and  unseen. 

I  believe  in  the  glory  and  the  majesty  and  the 
beauty  of  the  universe,  but  dare  not  say  who  or  what 
made  it,  since  none  know  nor  ever  can  know. 

I  believe  that  we  are  one  family,  and  that  all  dis- 
tinctions—  social,  religious,  or  political  —  are  frivo- 
lous, since  death,  if  not  life,  levels  all. 

I  believe  in  the  life  here,  and  in  no  speculation 
about  the  life  to  come,  of  which  none  can  know. 

I  believe  that  heaven  is  here  for  all  who  merit  it, 
and  hell,  too. 

I  believe  in  fate.     I  am  a  fatalist.     " Kismet." 


57 


'He  ate  and  drank  the  precious  words, 

His  spirit  grew  robust: 
He  knew  no  more  that  he  was  poor 

Nor  that  his  frame  was  dust. 
He  danced  along  the  dingy  days, 

And  this  bequest  of  wings 
Was  but  a  book.     What  liberty 

A  loosened  spirit  brings!" 


59 


Why  is  it  that  these  cold,  indifferent  men  are  the  most  be- 
loved ? 

—  Prosper  Merimee's  Letters  to  an  Incognita. 

I  have  thought  of  a  reason  why  seemingly  cold, 
reserved  women  are  attractive  to  some  men,  but  which 
reason  is  perhaps  as  incorrect  as  it  is  original. 

To  minds  given  to  keen  observation,  there  is 
always  a  fascination  about  whatever  is  not  under- 
stood, and  a  tendency  to  search  out  its  meaning. 

A  man  dislikes  to  think  himself  resistible,  and 
flatters  himself  that  ^will  prove  the  Prince  Charming 
to  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

The  same  is  true,  but  less  often  so,  where  the  sexes 
are  reversed. 

Let  me  ask  the  question,  why  women  who  torment  men  with 
jealousy,  laugh  contemptuously  at  their  humble  entreaties  and 
fling  their  money  to  the  winds,  have  twice  the  hold  over  their 
affections  that  the  patient,  long-suffering,  domestic,  Irugal  Gri- 
seldas  have,  whose  existences  are  one  long  penance  of  unsuccess- 
ful effort  to  please?  "An  Author's  Love. " 

Is  it  not  the  old,  old  story  of  the  eagerness  of  pur- 
suit and  the  discontent  of  satiety,  the  masculine  de- 
sire for  full  power,  complete  control, —  such  as  a  man 
delights  in  exercising  over  his  horse,  a  boy  over  his 
kite? 


George  Kennan,  the  litterateur,  who  visited  the 
Russian  mines  and  prisons,  to  find  out  whether  the 
reported  cruelty  inflicted  upon  the  exiles  is  true, 
found  it,  if  possible,  blacker  than  it  was  painted.  He 
has  given  the  world  the  fruits  of  his  experiences  in  his 
"Century"  articles,  and,  latterly,  in  lectures. 

I  feared  to  have  the  intensely  strong  impression  of 
the  magazine  recitals  weakened  by  hearing  the  lec- 
turer, because  so  many  who  write  well  cannot  read 
their  own  or  another's  writings,  but  my  fear  was 
groundless. 

Thrown  upon  a  screen  were  pictures  of  common 
criminals  and  political  prisoners,  banished  for  little  or 
no  cause,  by  "administrative  process."  The  faces  of 
the  former  were  of  the  usual  low,  depraved  type;  the 
latter  had  refined,  strong,  and  distinguished  faces, 
were  of  gentle  birth,  educated,  cultured,  and  rich. 

The  detailed  history  of  the  injustice  and  cruelty  to 
each,  and  their  constant  endeavor  to  escape  it,  was 
pitiful  and  harrowing  to  a  degree,  but  it  was  encour- 
aging to  learn  of  the  strength  of  the  Russian  character 
in  suffering. 

If  this  trait  does  not  eventually  right  their  wrongs, 
nothing  else  can. 

62 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

My  long-time  interest  in  Charlotte  Bronte  has  just 
been  satisfied  by  reading  her  "  Life  and  Letters."  So 
intense  was  my  interest  that  I  was  derelict  to  all  duty 
and  oblivious  of  all  other  pleasure  while  so  engaged, 
but  her  strict  performance  of  every  duty  has  since  in- 
spired me  to  the  accomplishment  of  my  own. 

What  affects  one  most  forcibly  is  the  unflagging 
persistence  of  purpose,  the  strong  will  in  a  weak 
body,  and  the  unflinching  faith  in  spite  of  deep  and 
continuous  sorrows. 


MAIN-TRAVELED   ROADS. 
(HAMLIN  GARLAND.) 

The  country  atmosphere  pervading  these  sketches 
makes  a  lover  of  nature  ache  to  leave  the  city.  The 
detailing  is  marvelous,  equal  in  its  way  to  Balzac  (the 
literary  Meissonier),  but  the  life  of  the  class  of  soci- 
ety he  depicts  is  as  great  and  depressing  a  study  as 
Millet's  "Man  with  the  Hoe." 


SUBSTANCE  AND  SHOW. 
(THOMAS  STARR  KING.) 

How  delightfully  instructive  are  his  picturesque 
phrases  and  fine  figures  clothing  the  soul  of  wondrous 
thought  beneath  ! 

Fitting  it  is  that,  in  recognition  of  his  reverence  for 
nature,  he  rests  on  the  green  earth  surrounded  by  the 
daisies  he  stooped  to  lift  in  life. 

Their  pink  and  white  heads  guard  him  whose  soul 
symbolized  the  one  color,  living  and  dead,  and  whose 
influence  rendered  roseate-hued  the  lives  of  his  fellow- 
men. 

THOREAU'S  LETTERS. 

Thoreau's  letters  are  the  letters  of  a  dreamer,  a 
visionary,  like  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  Concord  School 
of  Philosophy.  His  theories  and  sentiments  are  highly 
ideal,  yet,  like  some  ideals,  not  unattainable. 

Many  of  his  thoughts  are  quaint,  most  of  them  are 
original.  His  ideas  of  friendship  and  love  are  strongly 
reminiscent  of  Emerson.  Best  of  all  is  his  ceaseless 
exhortation  for  a  simple  natural  life  and  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  soul. 


PASTELS  IN  PROSE. 

"  Pastels  in  Prose  "  are  short  sketches  from  the 
French,  daintily  illustrated,  and  prettily  prefaced  by 
Howells. 

They  satisfy  the  literary,  artistic,  poetical,  and 
musical  nature,  since  poetry  is,  or  should  be,  music. 

Many  of  the  sketches  bear  a  refrain  like  a  song ;  in 
others,  the  same  words  are  twisted  about  skillfully ; 
some  are  merely  pretty  bits  of  description,  but  most 
of  them  carry  a  delicately  veiled  meaning  or  moral. 

The  imitations  of  the  Chinese  and  Japanese  are 
most  quaint,  and  are  thoroughly  impregnated  with 
the  Oriental  atmosphere. 

SAXE   HOLM'S   STORIES. 

Although  "  H.  H."  never  formally  acknowledged 
the  authorship  of  these  stories,  they  are  unanimously 
conceded  to  be  hers,  for  there  is  the  same  sweet, 
strong,  spiritual  strain  in  them  that  characterizes  her 
poems ;  the  same  high  ideals,  the  same  intensity  and 
refinement  of  thought,  feeling,  and  sentiment. 

They  are  further  remarkable  for  the  fact  that  both 
heroes  and  heroines  are  equally  well  drawn,  and 
because  her  own  deep  womanliness  is  paramount 
throughout. 


"TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES." 

I  agree  with  the  author,  that  "Tess  of  the  D'Ur- 
bervilles"  is  the  story  of  a  pure  woman.  Hardy 
seems  to  have  a  penchant  for  having  his  heroines  fall 
from  grace  early  in  life.  This  is  noticeable  in  "A 
Group  of  Noble  Dames  "  and  "  Life's  Little  Ironies. " 
Does  he  wish  us  to  imply  that  the  women  of  Wessex 
and  other  small  villages  are  frailer  than  their  sisters 
elsewhere?  But  since  such  accidents  but  too  often 
befall  women  of  the  civilized  world,  women  who  are 
neither  ignorant  nor  innocent,  women  who  are  well- 
born and  bred,  it  can  surprise  no  one  that  the  igno- 
rant, innocent  country  lass  is  easily  "led  astray." 

For  a  long  time  I  could  not  grant  Tess's  purity, 
because  she  returned  to  the  lower  life  after  finding 
Love, — Love  the  highest,  the  purest,  the  truest.  It 
seems  impossible  that  she  could  descend  after  living 
"on  the  heights,"  but  her  disheartenment  at  being 
discarded  by  her  lover  when  she  tells  him  the  truth 
(he  disappointed  me  deeply  by  forsaking  her),  made 
her  desperate,  and  an  undisciplined  nature  is  ready 
for  anything  when  in  such  a  state. 


66 


MUSIC. 


How  much  more  impressive  the  music  which  dies 
away  than  that  which  ends  in  loud  tones,  be  the  tones 
even  those  which  terminate  a  majestic  climax  ! 

One  often  wonders  how,  with  all  the  music  that 
has  been  written,  anything  original  can  still  be  pro- 
duced, just  as  one  wonders  how,  with  all  the  millions 
of  people  existing,  there  are  still  such  widely  differing 
faces  and  not  more  and  closer  resemblances. 

The  "Angel  Chorus"  from  "Lohengrin"  begins 
with  their  approach  in  a  burst  of  glorious  music,  as 
though  the  heavens  had  opened  and  suddenly  re- 
vealed the  glorious  sight;  with  their  receding,  the 
sounds  soften.  An  occasional  loud  tone  seems  to 
proclaim  the  return  of  a  spirit  that  has  strayed  from 
the  band  like  the  stragglers  of  a  flock  of  birds  ;  their 
gradual  and  final  disappearance  is  simulated  by  music 
softening  into  silence. 

Walter's  prize  song  from  the  "  Meistersingers," 
the  "Fountain,"  is  a  constantly  rolling,  rippling, 
ever-changing  melody,  like  a  brook  that  never  flows 
twice  over  the  same  spot  or  over  two  places  exactly 
alike. 


69 


Browning  and  Wagner  are  alike  in  that  both  have 
written  much  which  is  marvelously  beautiful,  and 
much  which  seems  to  be  discordant, —  but  whether 
this  is  because  it  is  but  "  harmony  misunderstood," 
is  yet  an  open  question. 


"Nothing  is  trivial  in  life,  and  everything,  to  the 
philosopher,  has  a  meaning." 


Seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  across  which  the 
sunshine  streams,  I  am  reminded,  by  the  sudden 
flashes  of  shadow  caused  by  birds  intercepting 
Phoebus'  beams,  of  the  transient  darknesses  that  cross 
our  lives.  Our  impatience  and  rebellion  would  cease 
did  we  divine  what  compensating  good,  what  aim  for 
the  beautifying  of  our  spiritual  nature  these  sorrows 
are  intended  to  serve. 

"There  are  certain  secrets  taught  by  pain  which 
are,  perhaps,  worth  the  purchase." 

After  one  of  our  visits  to  the  German  Hospital,  as 

M and  I  sat  on  a  bank  awaiting  a  car,  she  turned 

to  me,  after  a  pregnant  pause,  and  asked,  "  Is  not  all 
unselfishness  selfishness?" 

Strange  to  say  (yet  not  so,  for  we  are  friends],  the 
same  train  of  thought  was  in  my  mind,  and  so  the 
answer  was  ready, —  "Though  a  personal  happiness 
results  from  an  unselfishly  conceived  action,  that 
feeling  is  the  result,  not  the  motive,  for  the  deed." 
In  other  words,  "  To  be  good  is  to  be  happy." 

Soon  after,  the  same  idea  was  found  better  ex- 
pressed in  "Kathrina": 


73 


"  If  I  make  my  happiness 
The  motive  for  my  act,  I  spoil  it  with  the  taint 
Of  selfishness." 

When  passing  my  ideal  house,  whose  sweet  gar- 
den-growths seem  typical  of  the  lovely  life  indoors, 
I  heard  the  snowy-haired  grandmother  say  to  her 
healthily-pretty  grandchild,  both  enjoying  the  early 
morning  sunshine :  "  When  I  was  riding  to  town  yes- 
terday, I  smelled  something  so  sweet  on  my  dress. 
When  I  looked  down  I  saw  the  violets  you  had  given 
me,  and  then  I  thought  of  you." 

Such  appreciation  and  praise  of  a  child's  thought- 
fulness  (or  any  one's)  cannot  fail  to  make  considera- 
tion for  others  habitual.  "Let  us  not  look  down 
upon  the  child's  simple  acts  of  generosity.  It  is 
these  which  accustom  the  soul  to  self-denial  and  to 
sympathy." 

Instantly  M 's  query  came  to  mind:  If  praise  re- 
verts as  a  consequence  of  a  good  action,  the  desire  for 
it  is  not  a  conscious  motive  for  the  deed. 

Another  day  I  met  this  child  crossing  a  clover- 
field  ;  over  the  lot  the  wind  blew  smoke  from  a  pile 
of  burning  rubbish. 

74 


She  passed  through  the  suffocating  atmosphere, 
remarking  :  "  It 's  horrible,  but  I  don't  mind  it!" 

Wise,  brave  little  one,  learning  thus  early  to  endure 
unpleasant  experiences  without  complaining. 

The  earlier  in  life  one  learns  to  be  strong, 
The  easier  is  life  found  as  it  glides  along. 

Are  all  sorrows  sent  for  a  purpose?  Are  not  some 
sent  through  sheer  hard  fate? 

"I  boasted  that  I  had  yet  to  meet  with  any  first 
great  defeat  in  life, —  had  yet  to  encounter  that  com- 
mon myth  of  inefficient  characters,— an  insurmount- 
able barrier.  I  boasted  that  I  believed  in  no  such 
thing  as  forces  in  the  world  that  are  stronger  than  our 
wills,  and  that  the  imperfection  of  our  lives  resulted 
from  the  imperfection  of  our  own  planning  and  doing. 
I  boasted  that  if  ideals  got  shattered,  men  did  the 
shattering  themselves.  I  boasted  that  I  would  go  on 
rearing  the  structure  of  my  life  to  the  last  detail,  just 
as  I  had  long  conceived  it.  /  have  learned  better 
since  then" 

A  woman  had  two  great  sorrows.  Then,  what 
seemed  a  great  joy  came  to  her  as  compensation, 


75 


she  thought,  for  her  suffering.  It  proved  to  be  only 
another  agony;  so  she  must  needs  sink,  bodily,  be- 
neath the  three  trials. 

Perhaps,  it  is  just  as  well  that  all  the  miseries  come 
together,  since  a  little  more  or  less  matters  not,  when 
one  has  touched  the  depths.  There  is  a  point  beyond 
which  one  can  suffer  no  more.  It  is  there  that  in- 
difference begins. 

"  Nothing  had  availed  to  crush  him,  even  as  noth- 
ing ever  does  avail  to  crush  a  man  of  character.  But 
the  obstacles  and  torments  which  make  no  impression 
on  the  mind  of  a  strong  man,  often  make  a  very  sen- 
sible impression  on  his  heart ;  the  mind  triumphs, — 
it  is  the  heart  that  suffers  ;  the  mind  strengthens  and 
expands  after  every  besetting  plague  of  life,  but  the 
heart  withers  and  wears  away." 


"He  that  wrestles  with  us  strengthens  our  nerves 
and  sharpens  our  skill.  Our  antagonist  is  our 
helper." 


77 


"You  should  forgive  many  things  in  others,  but 
nothing  in  yourself." 

This  statement  is  selfish,  in  spite  of  its  seeming 
magnanimity.  By  being  less  forgiving  to  ourselves, 
we  exact  a  higher  standard  of  conduct  than  we  do 
from  those  whom  we  exonerate  from  blame  readily. 
We  allow  them  to  rest  content  with  what  is  less  per- 
fect than  could  be  attained  by  our  severer  judgment. 

"Count  that  day  lost  whose  low  descending  sun 

Sees  from  thy  hand  no  worthy  action  done." 
This  is  well  as  a  daily  motto,  except  that  one  is  apt 
to  remember  what  good  has  been  done  and  to  exag- 
gerate trifling  deeds  to  importance. 

Substitute  instead,  "  He  who  does  a  kindness 
should  never  remember  it,"  and  "  Do  good  by  stealth 
and  blush  to  find  it  fame,"  even  to  one's  self. 

"Animals  are  such  agreeable  friends, — they  ask  no 
questions,  they  pass  no  criticisms." 

Are  not  the  sudden  spring  and  bark  of  greeting, 
the  scowl  and  growl  of  the  dog;  the  purring  and  rub- 
bing, the  spitting,  scratching,  and  arched  back  of  the 
cat;  the  fiery  eye  of  the  horse,  and  the  approach  and 


79 


retreat  of  all  these  otherwise  unlanguaged  creatures 
as  expressive  of  liking  and  dislike  as  the  silent  actions 
or  words  of  approval  and  disapproval  of  human 
beings? 

"If  by  any  device  or  knowledge 

The  rosebud  its  sweetness  could  know, 
It  would  stay  a  rosebud  forever, 
Nor  unto  its  fullness  grow. 

And  if  thou  couldst  know  thy  own  sweeetness, 

O  little  one,  perfect  and  sweet, 
Thou  wouldst  stay  a  child  forever, 

Completer  whilst  incomplete." 

The  incomplete  man  is  necessarily  imperfect,  be- 
cause undeveloped.  One  admires  less  the  innocence 
of  ignorance  than  the  wisdom  which  comes  through 
being  tried  by  fire. 

There  is  no  strength  without  struggle.  A  negative 
goodness  that  has  never  been  tempted  or  tried  is  not 
worth  much. 

What  mother  wishes  her  baby  to  be  a  baby 
always?  Does  she  not  find  pleasure — her  very  life, 
in  fact,  now  as  she  did  before  it  came  — in  anticipating 

80 


its  growth,  bodily,  mentally,  and  morally,  eagerly,  yet 
fearfully? 

Undoubtedly  the  purity  of  an  untried  soul  is  ad- 
mirable, to  a  degree,  as  Rita  finds  in  "  Flagoletta": 

"  Do  you  know,  if  there  is  one  thing  irresistibly 
alluring  in  my  eyes  it  is  the  freshness  of  an  unspoilt 
life, —  a  youth  with  all  its  hopes  and  desires  and 
dreams  unsullied  by  knowledge  of  evil,  unspoilt  by 
contact  with  sin,  before  whom  the  world  lies  as  a  field 
to  tread,  not  a  burying-ground  to  shun,  and  yet  it  is 
the  one  thing  we  are  all  most  anxious  to  lose,  most 
heedless  of  possessing." 

An  always  interesting  study  to  a  keen  observer 
and  lover  of  children — love  of  any  kind  stimulates 
observation  in  that  direction  —  is  the  sight  of  youth 
budding  into  maturity.  It  promises  so  much,  and 
one  is  curious  to  learn  whether  the  promises  are 
fulfilled. 

The  half-blown  rose  gives  but  a  glimpse  into  its 
glowing  heart,  thus  showing  a  delicate  reserve  and 
confining  its  sweet  perfume.  It,  however,  is  not  so 
beautiful  as  the  full-blown  flower,  except  that  the 
latter  invariably  suggests  that  it  must  soon  die. 


"Tell  them,  dear,   that  if  eyes  were  made  for 

seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 


WHAT  THE  SMOKE  SAID. 

For  some  weeks  I  was  compelled  to  lie  abed,  in 
perfect  quiet,  in  a  darkened  room.  I  could  not  read 
or  write  or  see  any  one  but  the  nurse  who  attended 
me. 

At  first  I  felt  so  weak  and  weary,  the  absolute 
rest  was  welcome,  but  as  I  gradually  grew  stronger, 
I  sought  some  entertainment,  and  found  it  on  the 
window-blind. 

The  smoke  from  a  chimney  close  by  was  blown  by 
varying  winds  into  varying  shapes  across  it;  it  was 
not  only  a  timepiece  for  me,  but  was  also  a  measure 
of  my  neighbor's  meals,  there  being  more  smoke  at 
luncheon  than  at  breakfast,  and  more  at  dinner  than 
at  luncheon. 

Not  long  ago  a  little  boy  was  gazing  intently  out 
of  a  schoolroom  window.  In  reply  to  his  teacher's 
question,  as  to  what  interested  him  so,  he  exclaimed, 
"I'm  sure  the  lady  in  that  house  has  company,  for 
there  's  a  fire  in  the  grate."  So  the  smoke  from  this 
chimney  was  "company"  for  me  for  many  hours 
during  those  long  days,  and  this  is  what  it  told  me  : 

At  first  there  came  a  thin,  indistinct,  wavering  line, 

85 


like  the  vague,  uncertain,  wondering  movements  of 
a  baby.  As  the  flakes  gained  in  number,  the  air  bore 
them  along  rapidly,  so  that  they  looked  like  a  flock 
of  flying  birds,  or  like  children  racing,  or  like  leaves 
dropping  from  the  trees  in  autumn. 

At  times  a  strong  wind  sent  the  shadows  along  so 
swiftly  they  left  no  distinct  impression  on  the  curtain 
or  on  the  retina,  the  curtain  of  the  eye  ;  these  seemed 
to  me  like  the  impetuous  actions  of  youth. 

The  large  flakes,  coming  regularly  and  rapidly, 
looked  just  like  a  flag  fluttering  in  a  stiff  breeze,  and 
when  they  came  irregularly,  they  changed  to  a  line  of 
clothes  flapping  in  the  wind  on  a  day  in  March. 

When  the  smoke  poured  out  thickly  from  the  pipe 
set  into  the  chimney,  the  cylinder  became  the  smoke- 
stack of  a  steamer  about  to  set  out  on  a  voyage, 
while  a  small,  steady  stream  brought  the  steamer 
back  into  port.  Sometimes  the  pipe  sent  out  swiftly, 
smoke  and  soot  and  cinders  that  made  of  it  a  cannon 
belching  forth  destruction  or  a  man-of-war's  friendly 
salute  of  welcome  or  farewell. 

As  the  smoke  rolled  slowly  out  and  along  in  vol- 
umes, it  reminded  me  of  masses  of  snow,  the  thought 
of  which  cooled  my  hot  head— or  of  flocks  of  fleecy 

86 


sheep  that  called  to  mind  long  stretches  of  flowery 
meadows  and  sunny  hillsides  that  one  longs  for  in  the 
depth  of  winter  or  when  a  darkened  hour  makes 
winter  indoors. 

When  there  was  little  or  no  wind,  the  smoke 
passed  onward  slowly,  like  the  certain  steps  of  mature 
life,  or  with  the  dignity  of  a  courtly  pageant,  or  with 
the  majestic  movements  of  a  camel,  beneath  and 
around  him  the  limitless  desert  of  gray  sand,  while  a 
part  lifted  and  curled  itself  above  him  into  a  stately 
palm. 

When  it  was  blown  downward  with  force,  it  became 
a  shower,  and  when  denser,  a  downpour  of  rain 
blown  to  whiteness  by  a  storm.  Sometimes  it  de- 
scended very  slowly  and  spread  itself  out  into  a  fine 
tissue — a  bridal  veil — with  dark  spots  here  and  there 
for  the  embroidery. 

As  the  fire  died  down,  the  stream  grew  smaller 
and  smaller,  in  the  end  as  it  was  in  the  beginning, 
second  childhood  as  weak  and  helpless  as  infancy, 
until  it  was  no  more,  and  I,  too,  had  passed  into  the 
land  of  shadow,  to  sleep. 


87 


Have  you  ever  seen  a  humming-bird  poised  in 
air  by  rapid  winging,  dipping  his  needle-like  bill  into 
fuchsias  and  other  bell-shaped  flowers  ? 
Irresistible  dimples, 
An  orchard  in  bloom, 
A  fruit-tree  in  blossom, 
Clouds  sun-tipped  to  silver, 
The  softening  effects  of  twilight, 
Shadow-pictures  made  by  the  fog, 
Dazzling  sunrise-sparkles  on  the  ocean, 
Brown  birds  on  the  bare  branches  in  winter, 
The  long,  deep  curves  of  skimming  swallows, 
The  alternating  colors  of  a  flock  of  flying  pigeons, 
Firelight  glow  on  faces  surrounding  the  hearth, 
Sunlight  lighting  up  soft  hair  to  golden  or  auburn  tints, 
The  fascination  of  curves  not  developed  into  coarse- 
ness, 

A  face  spiritualized  by  temporary  pain  or  chronic 
suffering, 

Rose-petals  deepening  in  tint  toward  the   heart  of 
the  flower, 

The  iridescent  burnished  breast  of  a  pigeon  chang- 
ing in  the  sunlight, 

The  picturesqueness  of  a  snowstorm  with  the  birds 
flying  affrighted  through  it? 


WINTER. 

A  dark,  wet  night !  The  shifting  clouds  vary  from 
white  and  gray  to  black,  and  make  the  sky  beneath 
pitchy.  Here  and  there  a  blotch  of  black  yawns  from 
its  white  environment;  it  looks  like  our  future,  the 
deep,  unfathomable  beyond. 

The  wind  through  the  trees  sways  them  with  a 
doleful  strain;  the  reflections  of  the  street-lamps, 
lying  along  the  ground,  quiver  with  their  fitful  source 
and  vanish  in  a  point  into  the  darkness. 

The  leaves  of  the  trees  are  tessellated  against  the 
lighted  doorways  and  moisture-smoked  window, 
panes,  changing  them  into  stained  glass  of  an  ever- 
varying  pattern. 

Everything  without  is  restlessness,  save  when  an 
occasional  church-bell  sounds  a  momentary  peace 
over  all. 


We  are  apt  to  think  a  leaf  in  the  calendar  has  been 
misplaced  when  we  are  surprised  by  a  shower  in  sum- 
mer. We  bear  the  temporary  inconvenience  with 
little  or  no  complaint,  because  we  know  it  will  not  last 
long,  that  the  succeeding  sunshine  will  seem  all  the 


brighter  by  contrast,  and  that  the  earth  and  her  in- 
habitants will  be  cooled  and  refreshed  by  it. 

The  winter  rains  last  longer,  are  heavier,  and 
wisely  so, —  for  while  the  summer  showers  only  bathe 
the  surface,  those  of  winter  reach  the  seed,  and 
quicken  it  into  the  flower  and  fruit  of  the  queen 
season  of  the  year. 

The  light  summer  rains  are  the  sorrows  of  child- 
hood ;  the  winter  rains,  the  deep  sufferings  of  adult 
life,  which,  however,  are  diamonds  in  its  depths, 
giving  light  to  life. 

New  Year's  eve,  the  moon  was  a  crescent  which 
seemed  wonderfully  symbolic  of  the  time. 

The  small,  lighted  arc  typifies  the  past,  our  ex- 
perience during  which  should  be  some  assurance  of 
our  ability  to  combat  the  future.  That,  in  turn,  is 
represented  by  the  enlightened  portion,  outlined  by 
the  thread-line  of  light. 


9o 


"  General  observations  drawn  from  particulars  are 
the  jewels  of  knowledge,  comprehending  great  store 
in  a  little  room." 


We  are  not  responsible  for  our  innate  characteris- 
tics, but  we  are  responsible  for  their  education  to  good 
or  their  lack  of  cultivation  to  evil  results. 

In  correcting  a  fault,  we  generally  act  its  extreme 
opposite,  until  we  find  the  happy  medium. 

How  bravely  we  bear  the  wounds  which  consciously 
we  inflict  upon  ourselves ;  how  quickly  we  resent  those 
which  come  from  another! 

Disfigured  and  deformed  persons  must  feel  as  sen- 
sitive to  rude  staring  as  to  persons  turning  from  them 
in  pity  or  repulsion.  One  should  look  at  them  with 
an  expression  which  is  neither  too  sympathetic  nor 
all  untouched  by  their  ill-fated  condition. 

Blessed  is  he  and  his  who  has  the  faculty  of  finding 
much  in  little,  or  the  broad-minded  intellect  and  imag- 
-ination  which  sees  something  where  nothing  seem- 
ingly exists. 

"Those  who  trust  us  educate  us."  How  much 
nobler  the  faith  which  uplifts  than  the  distrust  which 
degrades  both  itself  and  the  suspected! 


93 


It  is  with  traveling  to  far-off  countries  as  with  visiting 
distant  friends.  One  makes  an  effort  to  get  to  see 
those  persons  and  places  not  easily  reached,  thinking 
he  can  always  "run  in"  to  those  near  by.  That  is 
why  our  own  country  and  our  neighbors  are  so  often 
neglected. 

The  Autocrat  says,  "A  pun  is,  prima  facie,  an 
insult  to  the  person  you  are  talking  with."  This,  of 
course,  is  an  exaggeration,  but  it  is  no  exaggeration 
to  say  that  a  voluntary  apology  is  such.  A  forced 
apology  should  never  occur.  The  tendency  to  ex- 
cessive apology  is  an  evidence  of  lack  of  breeding. 

While  we  always  wish  to  appear  at  our  best,  it  is 
infinitely  more  complimentary  to  give  others  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  that  they  do  not  understand  the 
situation  or  condition  for  which  we  would  present 
excuses. 

While  one  by  no  means  expects  or  even  hopes  to 
find  a  perfect  being,  it  is  necessary  to  have  ideals  for 
the  maintenance  of  a  high  standard  for  ourselves  and 
for  those  whom  we  idealize. 

While  we  often  thus  prepare  our  own  disappoint- 


94 


ment,  we  oftener,  let  us  hope,  educate  those  to  whom 
we  tactfully  present  the  perfect  type. 

One  should  be  exacting  intentionally,  not  to  satisfy 
his  own  selfish  and  perhaps  undeserved  desires,  but 
to  present  to  them  an  ideal  he  thus  incites  them  to 
attain. 

Very  few  persons  possess  the  moral  courage  to 
receive  gratefully  any  necessary  correction,  just  as 
but  few  persons  possess  the  strength  of  character 
and  delicacy  of  feeling  requisite  to  acquaint  another 
with  his  faults,  misdeeds,  or  peculiarities,  of  which 
he  is  often  unconscious. 

Indifference  is,  very  often,  only  a  passive  hatred. 

Our  self-disparagement  is  often  as  insincere  as  our 
compliments  to  others. 

The  manner  in  which  a  person  both  presents  and 
receives  a  gift  is  one  of  the  most  delicate  tests  of 
character. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  the  opposite  effects  pro- 
duced by  the  extremes  of  cold  and  warm  weather? 
Very   cold    weather    has    a    chilling,   contracting 


95 


influence  upon  a  person's  spirits,  making  his  good 
nature  withdraw  into  itself,  and  the  sufferer  conscious 
of  himself  only,  because  of  his  discomfort. 

Very  warm  weather  has  an  expanding  effect,  making 
one  sympathetic  with  the  discomforts  of  another  sim- 
ilar to  his  own. 

The  constant  wonder  of  a  person  as  to  what  opinion 
another  holds  of  him,  especially  after  first  acquaint- 
ance, is  a  stupendous  conceit.  Yet  is  not  indifference 
to  another's  criticism  conceit  that  is  greater?  It  is 
unrelieved  as  the  first  is,  for  the  former  implies  a 
complimentary  deference  to  and  desire  for  another's 
good  will. 

One  is  as  sensitive  to  the  spirit  of  a  book  or  a 
drama  as  to  the  atmosphere  of  physical  and  moral 
purity  which  emanates  from  every  one,  and  which 
constitutes  those  supposed  intangible  subtle  impres- 
sions which  found  our  first  judgments  of  individuals. 

Just  as  in  the  lower  animal  kingdom  many  creatures 
which  are  deadly  to  men  are  repulsive  in  appearance, 
so  many  a  human  being  whose  nature  is  unlovable, 


bears  unmistakable  evidence  of  this  upon  the  counte- 
nance, which,  oftener  than  not,  does  not  lie. 

Many  kinds  of  flowers  are  readily  revived  when 
withered ;  grass  erects  itself  after  being  down-trodden. 
So  human  strength  daily  recovers  after  exhaustion, 
and  is  often  reclaimed  from  a  close  approach  to 
death. 

It  is  frequently  so;  just  as  we  flatter  (or  insult) 
ourselves  that  we  have  grown  too  strong  or  too  in- 
different to  be  shaken  by  any  great  joy  or  sorrow, 
Fate  sends  something  to  show  us  how  little  we  know 
ourselves  or  others. 

How  much  meaning  decorations  for  any  occasion 
have  at  the  time;  how  dead  and  meaningless  they 
appear  after  the  event ! 

It  is  never  consoling  to  the  high  nature  to  compare 
its  condition  with  that  less  fortunate  than  itself.  It  is 
the  more  discouraging  to  compare  it  with  its  ideal. 


97 


HEALTH. 


99 


When  we  are  weak  physically,  Fate  seems  to  con- 
trol us;  but  when  we  are  strong,  we  feel  that  we  cqm- 
mand  our  condition  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  if  not' 
altogether. 

The  first  duty  of  every  individual  is  to  be  perfect 
physically;  in  other  words,  to  be  a  good  animal.  The 
next  duty  and  to  others  is  to  let  them  be  as  little  con- 
scious of  his  being  an  animal  as  possible. 

While  a  nature  that  has  become  highly  sensitive 
and  sympathetic  through  physical  suffering  or  other 
sorrow  may  have  a  sweet,  softening,  and  soothing 
influence,  too  much  of  such  association  is  depressing, 
since  we  are  oftener  in  need  of  active  than  of  passive 
enjoyment. 

The  influence  of  such  a  nature  does  not  begin  to 
equal  the  inspiring,  invigorating  effect  of  a  vigorous, 
healthy  mind  and  body,  even  if  the  latter  is  not  so 
deeply  penetrative. 

There  is  only  one  degree  of  feeling  well,  but  a 
million  degrees  of  feeling  ill. 

Healthy  people  are  pretty;  strong  people  are 
graceful. 


Should  a  perfect  physique  be  the  better  able  to 
withstand  an  indiscretion,  or  should  it,  by  reason  of 
its  perfectness,  the  sooner  rebel?  Wherein  lies  its 
virtue  unless  it  does  both  ? 


'Forenoon,  and  afternoon,  and  night;  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night, — 
Forenoon,  and — what  ? 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  life:  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won." 


103 


"A"  thinks  that  your  Fate  comes  to  you,  no  mat- 
ter where  you  go,  and  even  if  you  do  not  go. 

"B"  believes  with  Lucile  that  "we  are  our  own 
fates";  that  there  is  a  great  deal,  if  not  everything, 
in  one's  own  activity,  in  going  forth  to  meet  Fate, 
not  waiting  passively  for  it  to  come  to  you. 

"C"  agrees  with  "B,"  adding  that  sometimes  we 
meet  not  the  Fates,  but  the  Furies. 

If  the  mysterious  one  who  is  supposed  to  hold  the 
book  of  life  offered  to  show  you  the  leaf  allotted  to 
you,  would  you  eagerly  read,  or  would  you  turn  aside, 
content  to  let  events  take  their  course  ? 

On  the  beach  are  to  be  found  the  skeletons  of 
crabs,  the  limy  structure  crumbling  to  ashes  under 
pressure.  Is  the  end  of  our  life  anything  greater? 

One  should  deceive  himself  and  others,  where  a 
noble  end  justifies  the  means.  One  unconsciously 
deceives  himself  and  consciously  deceives  others  to 
make  his  life  and  theirs  happier. 

An  active  life  does  not  always  imply  a  useful  life, 
for  a  life  may  be  full  of  occupation  and  yet  be  devoid 


105 


of  all  high  purpose,  just  as  one  may  talk  much,  yet 
say  little  of  worth. 

Large  natures  love  large  life,  indicating  a  whole- 
souled,  generous  disposition  like  their  own.  The 
difference  between  a  Newfoundland  dog  and  a  black- 
and-tan  exactly  illustrates  this. 

The  one  is  big  to  burliness,  warm-blooded,  thick- 
coated,  large-framed,  and  possesses  all  the  instincts 
and  desires  of  a  healthy  nature;  the  other  is  puny, 
timid,  shivers  with  the  least  cold,  and  always  asks  to 
be  petted  and  coddled.  The  former  is  self-sufficient; 
the  latter  dependent. 

It  is  very  easy  to  be  considerate  and  good  to  others 
when  one  is  himself  either  very  happy  or  very  un- 
happy— in  some  ways. 

When  one  has  had  a  stormy  life  and  the  storms 
have  passed,  he  should  be  content  simply  to  be  at 
peace  again,  and  not  expect  any  especial  happiness 
as  compensation  for  his  trials;  yet  how  the  starved 
and  oppressed  heart  craves  action  through  some  wild 
joy  and  strong  and  steady  sunshine  ! 


106 


'HE   GIVETH   HIS   BELOVED   SLEEP.1 


107 


I  have  been  at  a  bridal  to-day.  It  was  the  marriage 
of  a  spotless  soul  with  heaven. 

The  day  was  a  perfect  summer's  day,  just  such  a 
one  as  our  "fair  one  with  the  golden  locks"  loved; 
even  the  wind  had  stopped  in  its  course  to  do  her 
reverence,  that  it  might  not  touch  her  harshly,  she 
who  was  so  gentle  to  all. 

As  I  went  in  at  the  door,  the  birds  sang  about  the 
porch  as  they  do  in  the  woods,  that  always  drew  her 
to  them  in  her  intense  love  of  nature. 

Bright-hued  flowers  and  ferns  from  her  beloved 
Sausalito  breathed  sweetness  and  strength  around 
her,  —  bright-hued  flowers  only,  —  for  death  was  not 
mournful  to  her,  who  welcomed  him  cheerily,  as  a 
friend. 

Her  lips  spoke  not,  —  in  the  climax  of  her  happiness 
she  was  speechless,  silent  with  the  weight  of  joy,  for 
her  too  heavy  but  bravely  borne  burden  had  dropped 
from  her,  and  her  wish  to  pass  from  sleep  to  eternal 
sleep  was  granted  just  when  she  wished  and  as  she 
wished. 

But  some  of  her  last  words  were  framed  by  the 
flowers;  words  of  faith,  courage,  hope,  love,  pain, 
and  joy;  words  which  told  us  how  to  live,  but  also 

how  to  die. 

109 


Her  death  was  a  bridal,  —  her  bridal  would  have 
been  death. 

The  prayer  was  short,  simple,  true,  and  impressive; 
impressive,   because   true ;    and   as   she   was   borne 
"  Nearer  My  God,  to  Thee,"  we  said,  in  a  whisper: 
"Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair." 

OUR  ELAINE. 

We  left  her  in  her  white  home,  covered  with  the 
offerings  of  friends,  —  and  above,  and  below,  and  over 
all,  was  the  heliotrope  she  loved  so.  Heliotrope  for 
our  Louise;  like  her,  so  sweet,  and  fading  so  soon. 

We   could  not  bear  to  put  her  completely  from 
sight  just  yet;  but  as  she  loved  life  dearly,  in  her 
gratitude  she  is  glad  to  go  back  to  the  dust  from 
whence  she  sprung,  '  wept  and  honored  and  sung.' 
"  To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind  is  not  to  die." 
I  have  been  at  a  bridal  to-day. 

The  only  true  monument  to  the  dead  is,  deeds  to 
the  living. 


^^^^^--tf^fc^ 

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